12 30 06 055
I love it when my guys have shaggy, floppy hair. I picture them as these untamed-looking creatures streaking down the soccer field, hair streaming out behind. Big Man, in particular, has a very thick head of hair and when it gets long it's a real mane. There's kind of a resemblance to Danny Torrance in The Shining, but really only a few people besides me see it. (Andrew and Miguel, thanks a lot guys)
Unfortunately, my sons don't like their hair long. They'd gotten kind of unkempt over Christmas and both of 'em have been complaining about it being in their eyes.
So the other day, everyone's just kind of randomly messing around, I'm paying bills on the computer, and I hear that soft crick-crick scissors sound. I whirl around and there is the Big Man with a fistful of hair in one hand and his new scissors in the other.
"Ok, first of all, I probably have never told you not to do that, but, um, don't do that. And really don't do that to your brother ever, ok?"
"Second? Saddle up, gentlemen. I have received your message loud and clear, and you will be please to hear that today is Haircut Day!"
His hair's so thick that a little later, when he was in the chair at the Hair Cuttery, the lady couldn't find where he'd taken the hunk out. They both insisted on getting "sideburns" though. They think sideburns are cool. I think it makes 'em look like Romulans.
Northern Irish Legionnaires. I could probably live without 'em.